Atmosphere(44)

“What’s a hostage negotiator?”

“Don’t worry about it. All right,” Joan said. “Which is it? Great Muppet Caper or Superman II?”

Joan did not hear Frances’s answer because she was distracted by Griff walking into the diner, headed for the counter.

He was picking up a takeout order. He saw her the moment she saw him, and he smiled at her, albeit forlornly. She wanted to go up and talk to him. But he’d been keeping his distance, walking over to JSC on his own even when they had the same schedule, declining dinner invitations from the group. She did wonder when things would go back to normal, but as she looked at him at the counter, he waved to her with such a sweet curtness that she understood it wasn’t normal yet.

“Joanie?”

“Hm?”

“I said I want to see The Great Muppet Caper.”

“Okay, babe,” Joan said. “Finish your plate and let’s head out.”

“Do I really have to?”

Joan wondered why she couldn’t be the cool aunt who let Frances eat chocolate cake with whipped cream for breakfast and stay up late and learn all the swear words. She didn’t know if that was her fault or Barbara’s fault. Or maybe it had always been inevitable.

“Yes,” Joan said. “You have to.”


That afternoon, Joan pulled into the driveway to bring Frances home, as planned. Joan had rebraided her hair, but otherwise, Frances was worse for wear, with maple syrup on her overall bib and popcorn butter on her pants.

“Can I spend the night at your house?” Frances said before she got out of the car.

Joan turned off the engine. “I don’t know about that, babe,” Joan said. “You have day camp tomorrow.”

“But you could take me,” Frances said. “I was thinking if you would take me to camp, or even school, in the morning sometimes, I could stay at your place more often.”

Joan nodded. “Why don’t we talk about it with your mom at some point?” she said. “But not tonight, okay?”

Frances nodded. “But you know she’s going to say yes,” she said. “She doesn’t care if I’m here.”

“Of course she does,” Joan said. “Your mother wants you with her all the time.”

Frances looked at Joan with a disappointed frown.

When they got to the front door, Barbara was cleaning the kitchen and there was music coming from the record player. Joan could hear a man’s voice in the backyard and smell the smoke of the grill.

“Hello, family,” Barbara said. She walked over to the front door and pulled Frances close to her. “Joan, do you want to stay for dinner? Scott is making ribs.”

“I can’t,” Joan said. “But can we talk for a moment?”

“Can I go watch TV?” Frances asked.

“Sure, honey,” Barbara said. “Go ahead.”

Even with Frances gone, Joan whispered as low as she could. “Why did you leave Frances outside by herself this morning?”

“What are you talking about?”

“You shut her outside and left.”

“You were picking her up.”

“She was alone outside by herself for more than a half hour.”

“Well, it’s not my fault you weren’t here on time. I assumed she’d only be there for a few minutes. And anyway, she’s fine, isn’t she?”

“Barbara, she’s seven years old.”

“I know how old my daughter is, thank you very much.”

“I’m just saying, maybe don’t lock her out. What if I hadn’t shown up?”

“I’d have been back in an hour. I just went to pick up Scott,” she said. “She’s a smart kid. She would have gone around to the backyard and played until we got here.”

“Barbara—”

“You consistently underestimate how smart and capable she is. You baby her.”

“I don’t baby her. I watch out for her.”

“Oh, screw you, Joan. Screw you. And don’t look at me like that.”

Joan was not sure how she was looking at her, but already the confusion was settling in.

Barbara often accused Joan of thinking things, claiming that Joan didn’t even have to speak, because of how clear her disdain was from her body language.

And the fact was that yes, sometimes Joan worried that Barbara was careless. Sometimes Joan was concerned about Barbara’s inability to consider other people, to think things through from any perspective other than her own.

But Joan worked so hard to stay on Barbara’s side.

Still, Joan was often snapped at for things she’d never said, accused of taking positions she had not yet even committed to within her own mind.

Was Barbara being unfair? Or was Joan indeed judgmental? And maybe her sister was the only person close enough to confront her about it? Joan wasn’t sure, knew that she might not ever be sure.

“I’m not looking at you like anything,” Joan said finally.

“Yes, you are—you think I’m a bad mother.”

“No, I don’t.”

“But you don’t know the first thing about being someone’s mother, Joan.”

“I know that.”

“And certainly not how hard it is to do it by myself. With no one helping me.”